The Reasons Why
by TOBiENELLx3
Summary: Why Chase is who he is.
1. My Mother

He leans over his chair, grits his teeth. As he hears her scream once more, he turns up the rock music he's never really liked, just uses to tune the world out. If he's ever going to get into med school, save more lives than his father – turn the job he loved more than his son into a game, a game he's loosing- he's got to finish this work. He hears his mother cry out, bites his lip, tells himself she just wants him to fill her empty glass. He longs to escape- he hates her, but her pain is his own. She is like she is for the same reason he is who he is.

His father, a man the boy loved, was too busy for a wife who couldn't care for herself. He left a note- claimed he was leaving _her_, not him. Buy the boy was stubborn, a fiery soul- his father's son. He would not leave her. He would prove he could do what his father failed to do and more.

Besides, hate_ is_ a strong word.

The boy has no where to run to, anyhow. He is too busy trying to keep her in one piece, keep her from slipping. He promises himself when he's a doctor, a rich one, he'll make friends. He chuckles as he pictures the swooning girls at school, wishes for once, he didn't have to turn them down.

He'll have kids, one day. He'll be a good father. He doesn't know how, but he promises himself he will be. His children won't live off the checks of a man who they haven't seen in five years. His children won't look in the mirror and see the man who disappointed him. They won't see a boy who loved too much and received nothing in return. A boy who is still, subconsciously, trying to satisfy his father, trying to be good enough. .

Anger flashes in the boy's mind, and he writes furiously, turns up the music even louder. Lets himself become numb to the world, and finds he likes it there, where no can hurt him any more.

"Robbie!" His breath catches as his finger lingers over the pause button. It comes again, loud and clear- his childhood pet name. He sighs pauses the music, flinches as the influx of noise hits him. He swivels in his chair, flicks off his work lamp, and sighs, trudging to the stairs.

"Yes?"

No response meets him. He walks down a few steps. The boy is but fifteen, and old for his years – he's had to be - but when he calls, "Mommy?" it comes out as a faint hiccup. He shudders at the magnitude of the profound silence. Calls out again, gaining the same response. Robotic, he walks down the rest of the stairs, shuts his eyes and tells himself it was all a dream, this is just a nightmare, as he feels his way to the kitchen. He barely has to open his eyes to spot the bottle of wine, shattered on the floor, but he doesn't even see it, doesn't pay attention to it.

Who would, if they were seeing what he was?


	2. A Letter

The boy is older now. Almost seventeen. He lives in foster care for one more year, and this is what keeps him going most days. One more year, until he's free. He sits on the floor of his bedroom, a small extra one the family had put together from a walk in closet. His knees fold against his chest, and he chews his pencil as he crosses out some words, fills in a few, and then pulls back, examining his work. He is writing a letter to his father, and he's got to get it just right. He wants to cause his father as much pain as he had felt. When he stared into his mother's glazed over eyes, and the doctor whispered to him one more time that she was dead, and he was sorry. The next day, when he sat in an office and a stunning women in a business suit asked him softly where his father was.  
"I have his number," Robert had said softly, "At the house, on the refrigorator." He'd choked a little as he added, "My mother, she said I ought to call him every birthday and Christmas, but that was it. She made a point that he'd chosen to abandon us and I shouldn't let him know I missed him. ."  
The women had nodded, and the boy had hoped, for once, that his father would take him back with open arms. But an hour later she returned, shaking her head sadly, and told him, "You'll be placed in foster care as soon as possible." He wants his father to feel that pain he felt. When he heard his father didn't want him.  
He doesn't want to be a doctor anymore. He's dicided it might satisfy his father, if he ever knew. And he wants nothing less than that. He writes the words he wants to scream in his father's face. He almost smiles as he scrawls the words, 'you killed her.'  
His brain tells him the things he will not tell his father.  
I almost wanted you to love me.  
I almost thought you would.  
Almost.  
His hand does not will itself to write these words.  
He hears a soft knock on the door. His cousin, Julie, daughter of the aunt he is living with now, a fair blonde, resembling him, is standing in the door way. "Robbie," she says affectionatly, "Won't you come down for dinner?" He shakes his head, just gently. He does nothing in an angry way toward her, if only her. Julie treats him well.  
"You don't eat," she sighs, sitting at his side, "Why?"  
"It's not that." He doesn't look at her as he slyly turns his notebook over so that she cannot see it, and then faces her again. "I'm an alien in this family."  
"You haven't made an effort to be a part of it."  
"Have you ever wondered why I'm here?" he raises his voice only slightly, and Julie relents.  
"I know what you've gone through. I know you don't want to trust us…" she shrugs, "But you should. I hate to see you waste away. You're a good friend. I'd love to be able to call you my brother." He smiles gently, but when she stands up and offers her hand, he shakes his head again.  
"Not tonight."


End file.
